


Bulletproof Loneliness

by AgentInfinity



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Gun Violence, Knife Violence, M/M, Merc!R, Murder, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex, Violence, discussions of mercenary type jobs, mentions of torture, typical assassin/mercenary type content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentInfinity/pseuds/AgentInfinity
Summary: Grantaire enjoys the little things in life--the feeling of sculpting something out of pieces of scrap metal, the burn of a good whiskey, and eliminating shitty people with contracts on their heads.  What happens when someone works his way into Grantaire's life and makes him want more?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oooooookay, friends. So, this is my first chaptered fic not related to my porn!au. And honestly, I have no idea how quickly things will be updated, but this has been sitting in my drafts for about three years, and I wanted to give it a shot again. Let me know what you think and if you want me to continue it. Enjoy!

Grantaire opens the study door and leans against the doorframe, dropping his bag at his feet. His target is asleep at his desk, head nearly in his plate of half-eaten steak and potatoes.

“Good evening, Mr. Keyser,” Grantaire announces loudly, startling the man. He sits up quickly, almost upending his chair and sending himself backward into the floor. Once he’s regained his wits, he looks up and takes in Grantaire’s appearance. 

Tonight, Grantaire is dressed in black—black jeans, shirt, jacket, and boots—not for the style, but because, clichés aside, it truly is easier to move around unseen at night wearing black. 

“Back up, motherfucker,” the man says, barely above a shaky whisper, pulling a gun out of a desk drawer. He’s pointing a goddamn desert eagle .50 cal in his tremulous, white-knuckled grip. Grantaire rolls his eyes. It’s extremely likely that if Mr. Shaky Pants here gets a shot off, that he’ll break his hand. Or his nose. 

Maybe both. That’d be hilarious.

Grantaire clears his throat and raises his hands in the universal ‘Hey, I’m unarmed and harmless’ gesture. He’s neither of those things, but sometimes it works. 

“Now, now. No need for name-calling. Let’s put that ridiculous gun down, and I’ll tell you a story.” Grantaire slowly advances toward the curved back, dark leather chair facing the desk. He sits down and leans back, the very portrait of tranquility.

“Wha-what do you want?” he stutters out, gun lowering fractionally as his arm gets tired. 

“Like I said, put the gun down and I’ll tell you,” Grantaire repeats conversationally.

“Hey! Help! I’m in the study! Terry! Ethan!” he yells. While he’s looking expectantly toward the door, Grantaire leans forward and quickly plucks the impractical hand cannon out of the guy’s fist. 

“Look, Mr. Keyser. Your guys aren’t coming. Sit down and shut up for a minute.” He doesn’t sit down. He just stands there and gapes at Grantaire, mouth slightly open. Grantaire pulls out one of his knives, a slim, five-inch, double-edged blade, perfect for all his slicing and dicing needs, and points it at the man.

“I said. Sit. Down,” Grantaire tells him, all humor gone from his voice, and he finally sits, leather high-backed chair squeaking under his weight.

“What happened to your face?” he asks. Hmm, ballsy. Grantaire smirks, knowing it accentuates the jagged line of the pearly white scar tissue that runs from his temple to the corner of his mouth, contrasting starkly with his olive skin. It’s not his only scar, not even close, but it is his most noticeable.

“So, as I was saying, it’s story time. There was once a beautiful heiress, who loved a handsome young man. After a short engagement, they were married on a beach in the south of France. Picturesque wedding. I saw the photos in the foyer. She was a stunning bride.” Grantaire points toward the front of the house with his knife. The man looks completely terrified, as planned.

“And so, they begin their life together. They have four kids, three girls and a boy, and all seems well. The kids are healthy. They have a sprawling, gated mansion.” Grantaire gesticulates with both hands, his right still gripping the knife lazily. “She hosts benefits for causes like Alzheimer’s and breast cancer, real bleeding-heart type, ya know? He works, often away, and brings home lots and lots of money. The perfect, rich, white dream, right?” Grantaire gets up and starts around the desk, perching himself on the edge of it when he gets to the other side. This way, he towers over the guy, who’s still sitting but has shoved himself away from the desk somewhat.

“But, all is not as well as it seems in the kingdom. The husband is a wrathful and terrible man, parading other women in their marriage bed, abusing his wife and children, threatening to kill them all if she tries to leave.” This is where the man finds his voice.

“So that’s what this is about? That whore spread her legs for you and tell you all these, these lies?” he asks, both anger and desperation in his voice.

Grantaire doesn’t waste any more time on pretense. He kicks forward, sending the chair careening at the wall where it hits with a dull, disappointing thud. No way is that nice cherry paneling going to give. They really didn’t spare any expense in the building of this house. Too bad Grantaire has to burn it down. He follows the chair and straddles the man’s legs, knife held at his throat.

“Listen here, you fucking pig, the details aren’t important. Why I’m here isn’t the point. The point is, that your wife was so sick and tired of your abusive bullshit that she paid me a lot of money to kill you,” Grantaire says lowly, dangerously.

"How much? I-I can pay more! You can leave, and I won’t call the-the cops. I can make you rich!” Grantaire cuts him. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him shut up.

“Mmm, no. I would have done this one for free. The more research I did on you, the more I was convinced that the world would be better off without you in it.”

“Please, just don’t! Please!” The man is hysterical now, he knows there’s no way to get out of it. “There are people who’ll know what happened. They’ll come after you! After that fucking bitch! They’ll do horrible things to you and worse to her! You’ll both fucking die and the kids—” Grantaire doesn’t let him finish. He slashes him from ear to ear, warm arterial spray hitting him in the face. The man splutters for a bit, drowning in his own blood, and then stops, quietly twitching. The metallic tang of the asshole’s blood hangs heavy in the air, and Grantaire takes a moment to relish it. 

After a long beat, he goes to the doorway where he dropped his bag and pulls out a jug of gasoline and some plastic explosives and sets them aside on the desk. He uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the blood from his face before grabbing a can of spray paint and leaving the room. He walks throughout the house, painting a few symbols on the walls à la the trafficking cartel his mark was involved with. They’re efficient, but the laymen aren’t the brightest, so it feels like something they’d do if they were making an example out of him for fucking up.

Grantaire takes pride in doing a thorough job, which means he does his homework so he doesn’t get surprised.

Not that he didn’t learn that the hard way. 

He returns to the study and looks around. The body is still in the chair, neck a gaping, gory maw, head resting against the wall. Eh, the guy got a quicker death than he deserved. Grantaire snaps a quick photo on his work phone and sends it off as proof of the hit. The gasoline gets tossed over everything, the body, the beautiful desk, the plush carpet. He puts one explosive on the mark’s chest and the others on the desk and walls. 

He places the hideously large gun on top of the explosive on the desk, and steps carefully back to the door, saluting the corpse.

“Goodbye, Walt. It was truly a pleasure killing you.” He leaves a trail of gasoline to the door where he lights it and runs for the fucking hills.

He makes it over the gate and up the road a block before he hears the first explosion. He knocked the guards out and left them at the gate of the property before he went inside, but he doesn’t much care if they were clear of the explosions or not. If they were protecting that guy, then they were probably just as shady.

Another couple blocks and he’s back to his bike, probably the most expensive thing he owns besides his house. The wind whips across his face as he takes a circuitous route back to his place, accelerating only slightly past the speed limit.

It’s still only eleven-thirty when he gets home, so he showers the blood off him and gets dressed quickly, hoping to make it to his favorite bar in time to get a couple drinks down and maybe find someone to go home with. He’s still too keyed up to sleep, and sex is more fun than exercise.

He doesn’t think about how he just happily murdered a guy, blew up his house, and is now looking forward to possibly finding someone to fuck. Introspection leads to dangerous ground.

He bags his bloody clothes, leaving out his leather jacket, and hides them in his closet. He’ll take them to Feuilly’s place tomorrow and burn them.

Clean and free of blood, he hops back on his bike and heads downtown to The Corinth.

It’s his favorite bar for two reasons:

1\. The clientele. All walks of life come to revel at The Corinth. Young professionals, old drunks, college kids, middle-aged men who want to watch “the game”, and older, single women who are looking for something young and exciting. Grantaire loves people, loves both watching them interact and interacting with them. 

2\. The bartenders. They’ve seen him through his toughest times and his best. They’re some of his best friends, and who doesn’t love hanging with their best friends?

Grantaire takes a seat at the bar, giving Cosette a little wave as she serves someone at the far end of the bar. She makes easy conversation with the guy, laughing easily and accepting the tip he hands her with a nod of thanks. Grabbing a longneck and a shot of whiskey, she makes her way back down the bar to him. 

“Grantaire! How’s my favorite sculptor?” she asks, leaning her elbows against the bar and smiling. 

“Can’t complain. How’ve you been? Find that mysterious and beautiful stranger from the park yet?” He downs the shot in one and chases it with a gulp of beer.

“Sadly, no. But I’m optimistic. We’ll meet again, I'm sure.” A few weeks ago, Cosette had caught sight of a guy at the park, apparently someone swoon-worthy, but he had disappeared before she could speak to him. So, naturally, she’s been going to the park every day to find him.

It’s all very romantic and Disney of her, but if anyone can pull off a Disney princess ending, it’s Cosette. She’s kind of like Snow White and Mulan in one pint-sized package. One might expect to see cartoon animals following her around, and she adopts people as her own whenever she finds someone she likes, but she’ll cut you down if you fuck with her.

Grantaire thinks she’s fantastic.

They chat for a while about other things, her upcoming thesis defense, his latest sculpture, the State Of Political Things.

It’s that last one that gets the attention of the truly stunning blonde man sitting one chair over from Grantaire. He’s with two other guys, but he swiftly turns around when Grantaire declares, “The world is fucked, my dear, and it doesn’t matter who wins what election or what charity groups do what charities, because at the end of the day, the people as a whole don’t give enough of a shit to really help. I know I don’t.” Cosette swats at him, amused and exasperated but knows better than to argue seriously with him. She grabs him another beer before being beckoned back down the bar to other patrons.

“Are you going to speak or just gape, Apollo?” Grantaire asks, which apparently throws the guy off-balance.

“I-what? Apollo?” he asks. 

“Yeah, y’know. Apollo, beautiful and oracular? Patron of Delphi and God of light and like a hundred other things depending on who you ask?” Grantaire takes another drink of beer, and notes how his new acquaintance watches the line of his throat as he swallows. It makes him smile.

“Yeah, I know that. But are you always so cynical?” he asks. 

“Yes, I am. Grantaire, lovely to meet you,” Grantaire says, holding out a hand. The other man takes it and gives it a firm shake.

“Enjolras.”

“So I take it you’re an idealist? I can see your idealism trying to break free from its containment behind your lips, Sir Enjolras.” One of the other men he's sitting with snorts and tries to bury a laugh in his drink. Enjolras ignores him.

“Well, that’s not an incorrect assessment.” He takes a drink from his tumbler of something dark, the ice clinking merrily.

“So would you like me to elaborate?" Enjolras nods. Grantaire takes another drink and then clears his throat. "Okay, there are wars across the globe, big ones, insignificant ones, short-lived ones, and eternal ones. The one thing they all have in common are the fucked up minds behind them. People who don’t like the looks of those people over there, people who hate for no reason, people who want to get ahead of the people beside them. _People_ with rage in their minds and hearts. The only way to end the suffering, the hate, and the blind hunger for power over others is to end all people everywhere. Which isn’t gonna happen. People also _need_ people. No one wants to be the half-blind guy at the end of the story with nothing but books he can’t read.”

“Jesus christ, Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes out, and Grantaire loves the way his name sounds on those lips. “Wait, did you just reference The Twilight Zone?”

“Indeed, fair sir,” Grantaire nods, taking a long pull from his bottle. “It’s one of my favorite episodes.”

“It’s a really sad episode.”

“Yeah, but it’s a question of loneliness vs. solitude with a dash of ‘be careful what you wish for’ and ‘maybe interact with people sometimes, dude.’” Enjolras eyes him for a few seconds, scrutinizing. Grantaire stares back, completely unabashed. He takes stock of Enjolras’ features.

His facial structure is enough to make Grantaire to ache for something malleable under his hands to recreate the perfectly arched cheekbones and slender jawline. He wouldn’t be able to do it, he’s no good with working in anything but metal, but it’s an artist’s inclination when they see someone so beautiful. Enjolras would be perfectly suited as an avenging angel, flaming sword in hand and perfect white wings casting shadows as he swooped down to end tyranny.

His golden hair is probably chin length, but tonight it’s pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his angular neck, much like Grantaire's. A red button-up is settled snugly across his shoulders, sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone.

“Would you like another drink?” he asks Grantaire, settling himself on the stool next to him with a wave of dismissal at his friends when the one who snorted earlier whistles at him.

“I wouldn’t turn it down,” Grantaire answers, even though he’s not even halfway down his current one. Enjolras waves at Cosette and points at their drinks when she looks up.

"I think it's lazy and a fool's answer to just assume things will never improve whilst not actually working toward any improvements. There are a ton of resources out there for the poor, and the homeless, and the downtrodden. Things _can_ get better with hard work and compassion. I've seen the evidence of it." Cosette finishes making a Manhattan and sets it down in front of Enjolras, taking his now empty tumbler away and popping the top off another beer for Grantaire.

“How do you know I’m not working on any improvements?” Grantaire asks cheekily.

“Are you?” Enjolras counters, brows raised. Cosette clears her throat theatrically, and they both look at her obediently.

"I hate to interrupt this adorable demonstration of two boys who are going to go home together, but Grantaire, if you drove your bike here, you're cut off. I know you'd never leave it and take a cab, so I'm done serving you for the night. Please tip generously." Cosette gives him a look, and he grins, pulling a few bills from his pocket and handing them over. She counts it and raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, you terrible woman, the change is all yours." She laughs, her voice a beautiful soprano peal of bells. Disney princess incarnate for sure. 

"Let me know when you get home, R. I love you."

"Yeah, yeah." She leans over the bar and kisses his cheek, the scarred one, and heads over to another beckoning customer.

"Are you two..." Enjolras trails off. 

"What, lovers? Beneficial friends? Participants in intense BDSM play?" Enjolras laughs and sips his drink. 

"Any of that, I suppose."

"Eh, we don't fit together as the first thing, tried the second thing once and failed spectacularly, and the thought of Cosette with a whip is too terrifying for me."

"So, friends, then?" Grantaire finishes off his second beer and starts on the third. 

"Yeah, she's one of the best people I know, and lucky for me, she enjoys mothering people. Her cookies are to die for. Honestly, if that's the only relationship we had, cookie producer and consumer, I'd still love her."

Enjolras just looks at him, strange little smile on his face. 

"So, Apollo, would you like to continue our discussion on realism vs. idealism?" Enjolras downs the rest of his drink in one go, licking the stray drops from his lips. 

"Maybe another time. Would you like to get out of here?" he asks, straightforwardly. Grantaire absolutely would. 

"Your place? Cosette was right, I'm not leaving my bike here, but I can follow you."

"Actually, I was hoping we could go to yours? I have a friend staying with me right now." One of the Enjolras' friends, not even a tiny bit ashamed to have been eavesdropping, looks over and nods. 

"Please go somewhere else. I have no desire to listen to Enjolras fuck someone." His dark eyes twinkle against nearly-as-dark skin, a hint of a smile curling one edge of his mouth. 

"It’s _my_ place, Combeferre, and actually, I was hoping he'd fuck me," Enjolras says, completely fucking serious. His friend, Combeferre apparently, groans and turns away again. Grantaire takes a beat to search his face for any indication of humor but finds only sincerity.

And maybe a hint of something else darkening in his eyes. Grantaire takes one more drink of his beer and stands. 

"Pay the nice lady for your drinks, and let's go to mine." 

Enjolras throws down some money, not even looking to see how much and leads the way out the door. One of Enjolras' friends, the one not staying with Enjolras, calls out, "Use protection, boys." 

They walk around the corner to the parking lot before Enjolras slams Grantaire into the brick exterior of the bar and kisses him with all the passion of the god Grantaire keeps associating with him. It's rough and unyielding, but that's par for the course of Grantaire’s life, so he just wraps his arms around Enjolras' shoulders and pulls him closer, pressing his hips forward and pulling a quiet moan out of him. They break apart and just breathe for a moment, panting with their heads bowed against each other. 

"Jesus, are you always this forward?" Grantaire asks when he catches his breath. 

"I don't hesitate to go after what I want." Grantaire laughs out loud at that. 

"I noticed that. A little."

"How far to your place?" Enjolras asks, moving back and letting Grantaire step away from the wall. 

"Not far. Ten minutes." 

"That's a long time."

"Think unsexy thoughts. Sad, orphaned dogs and the one percent’s rampant consumerism.”

"Ha. Ha." Enjolras pulls keys from his perfectly-fitted dress pants. 

"It's just on the edge of the East End. 1011 Burke Street if we get separated." Grantaire slings a leg over his bike and brings it roaring to life. Enjolras stares for a moment before unlocking his red Audi hybrid and getting in. Grantaire scoffs quietly and shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. Of fucking course this man drives a hybrid.

Grantaire pulls out onto the street, trying to be mindful of someone following him, someone he doesn't need to shake, and enjoys the cool night air on his face. There are few things he loves as much as riding his bike.

Enjolras trails him closely, and they make it to his house without incident. He backs his bike into the garage and slips off his helmet and protective glasses. Enjolras is out of his car and inside the garage before Grantaire can even dismount the bike.

Enjolras walks around, looking at the various equipment and spare metal parts lying around the empty side of the garage. Grantaire owns an old car, a black Crown Vic, reliable and inconspicuous, but it’s parked outside the garage door beside Enjolras' impeccably detailed hybrid. 

Enjolras slides a finger across Grantaire’s MIG welder and asks, "What is all this?" Grantaire finishes tapping out a text to Cosette assuring her of his safe return home before answering. 

"Different types of welding machines. This one is a MIG welder. I've got an arc welder over there," Grantaire points to the shelves in one corner. "I've got a TIG machine too, but it's in storage. I don't use it often." Enjolras turns to the sculpture sitting in the middle of the left side of the garage. 

"So, you're a sculptor?" he asks, inspecting the unfinished sculpture. 

"In the loosest sense of the word, yes. I was always shit with clay and carving, but I like working with metal. It seems heartier, like I can't fuck it up as easily." Grantaire has no idea why he's telling this gorgeous stranger these things, but his mouth does have a tendency to overwork itself if given the chance. 

"I like this," he says, hand tracing the curve of the rods supporting the head of the figure. The rods are meant to be the neck, winding cords of muscle exposed by a large, gaping wound. Grantaire shakes away the mental image of the man he killed earlier in the night.

"I haven’t decided what it's going to be when it's done, but it's turning out nicely, I think." A beat passes and Grantaire turns away from the sculpture and slides his fingers over Enjolras' neck, matching the way Enjolras had stroked the neck of the sculpture. Goosebumps break out under his fingertips, and he pulls Enjolras flush against his chest kissing him and holding him fast. 

This time, Grantaire is setting the pace. He licks into Enjolras' mouth, scrapes his teeth against Enjolras' bottom lip and drinks in the gasp and the moan he receives.

Enjolras pulls back, breathless. 

"I wasn't kidding earlier. I'd like you to fuck me."

"I know you weren't kidding. It just took me by surprise. With your personality, I assumed you'd be the one doing the fucking."

"Is that a problem?" he queries, arching one perfectly shaped brow. 

"Not in the least," Grantaire takes his hand and leads him through the side door and into the house. He presses Enjolras against the kitchen counter as they pass, licking and kissing his way down one side of Enjolras' neck before moving on through the living room and down the hallway toward the bedroom, his lips and tongue never leaving Enjolras for long.

By the time they reach the bedroom, Grantaire is missing his shoes, one sock, his jacket, and his shirt. Enjolras chases his pulse point below his ear with his lips as they move toward the bed, breaking contact only long enough for Grantaire to pull his undershirt over his head. His soft-as-butter dress shirt lay somewhere in the hallway, forgotten with Grantaire’s jacket and sock. 

Grantaire presses Enjolras back against the bed and drinks in the view. The flat plane of Enjolras' chest and stomach is an expanse of pale, perfect skin dipping into a V-shape at his hips and disappearing into the waistband of his pants. Grantaire feels himself growing harder in his jeans as Enjolras looks up at him with unabashed, wanton lust.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, Grantaire unfastens Enjolras' pants and slips them down his legs, kneeling to remove his shoes and socks and kissing his way back up from ankle to hip joint. Hands wind their way into his hair, tugging him back up as he crawls over Enjolras and captures his lips in another searing kiss. 

Enjolras' hands slip down from his hair to his shoulders and onward to his back, pulling Grantaire’s body into his and digging his nails into the scarred flesh over his shoulder blades. Most people ask him about his scars at this point, unable to stop themselves. His entire body is littered with reminders of his time with the SEALs and as a mercenary, some reminders larger than others, but Enjolras either doesn't notice or isn't interested enough at the moment to inquire. 

Enjolras sucks at a spot on his clavicle near one end of a knife scar, biting him briefly before soothing it again with his tongue. 

Grantaire stops thinking about his scars and ways to explain them. 

"Fucking hell," Grantaire growls when Enjolras continues biting and sucking places across his chest. He leans back and catches his breath, knowing if he goes too much longer that he'll just come in his pants, and wouldn't that be embarrassing? "Scoot back," he instructs and Enjolras does, abs flexing enticingly as he moves. 

Grantaire moves with him and leans down to kiss a path from Enjolras' chest to his stomach and down to his hip bones, pressing teeth against him lightly. A breath rushes harshly from Enjolras' lungs, and Grantaire looks up to see him with one arm behind his head as he watches Grantaire get closer and closer to his cock. 

"Hmm. I think I found a good spot here." Grantaire grins as he moves over to give the other hip the same treatment. Enjolras sucks in a breath and thrusts his pelvis upward before Grantaire grips him and pushes him back down to the bed. 

"Was there something you wanted?" he asks playfully, tightening his grip slightly. 

"Your mouth on my cock would be nice." Enjolras' voice is low and demanding, and Grantaire suspects that he gets his way more often than not if he's capable of commands like that. 

"Well, since you're asking so politely." Grantaire slips fingers into the waistband of Enjolras' underwear and slides them down enough to bare his cock. It's long and narrow, much like Enjolras himself, and Grantaire wastes no time in sucking the head of it into his mouth and pressing his tongue to the underside.

Grantaire has never been able to deep throat anyone, but he isn’t awful at sucking cock. He slips Enjolras as far into his mouth as he can and comes back up, sucking hard as he does so, his hand stroking at the base in time with his mouth. Enjolras’ hands fly to Grantaire’s head as he gasps and groans out a curse, but he doesn’t push, just rests them there and tugs lightly on the loose black strands slipping from his hair tie.

Continuing his ministrations, Grantaire allows his eyes to fall shut, absorbing the sensation of Enjolras on his tongue, lips stretched wide around him. Whispered curses and grunts reach his ears as Enjolras tries to keep himself from bucking upward into his throat. He ignores the ache in his jaw and the saliva starting to run over his hand and keeps stroking as if his hand is an extension of his mouth. When he finally opens his eyes, it’s because Enjolras is pulling on his hair, tugging Grantaire up and off his cock.

“What is it?” he asks, wiping at his mouth with his dry hand.

“If you keep that up, I’m going to come down your throat,” Enjolras replies, breaths ragged. Grantaire grins, and leans down to kiss back up Enjolras’ chest, catching his mouth again once he’s made a slow and deliberate path to it. His bed is too wide for him to reach his side table’s drawer, so he breaks the kiss and comes back with a bottle of lube and a condom. Straddling Enjolras, he looks down at him and takes in the sight.

His face and chest are flushed, lips kiss-swollen and pupils dilated and shining darkly in the dim light from the streetlight outside the window. Enjolras reaches up and strokes a hand down the middle of Grantaire’s chest.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful.” For a second, Grantaire thinks he’s said it without intending to, but then he realizes it came out of Enjolras’ mouth instead of his own. Grantaire raises an eyebrow quizzically and tilts his head.

“That’s my line,” he says, wondering just what’s wrong with this gorgeous stranger’s brain. He’s always been told he had certain attractive traits—a handsome charm, a roguish smile, an easy grace, but no one really paid him much attention when he was always shadowed by his big brother, who was always wittier, and braver and better-looking.

His brother went into the marines like their father, and when Grantaire was old enough, he signed up for the SEAL program. It was the only way to one-up his brother, and he had done just that. He made it through training as well as anyone could, led countless successful missions, and then, without any real world skills when he got out eight years later, started working as a mercenary.

The moral of this story is that Grantaire is riddled with scars. Most of his one-night stands are placated when they find out he’s a former SEAL, or they stare for a few moments before ignoring them.

Enjolras is drinking in the sight of him with a thirst Grantaire does not understand.

He changes the subject.

“How do you want to do this?” His voice pulls Enjolras out of his reverie, his hand stilling on Grantaire’s abs. Enjolras lifts himself up, and Grantaire moves to allow him to slide his underwear off and flip over to rest on his elbows and knees.

“Like this,” he says, with his perfect ass in the air. This time it’s Grantaire who loses himself for a moment at the sight in front of him. “Grantaire?” Enjolras asks after a moment.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, just admiring the view.” Grantaire slicks up his fingers and strokes around Enjolras’ rim lightly with a slippery fingertip. Enjolras shivers and drops his head down to rest on his forearms.

“Fuck,” he sighs, muscles tightening at the sensation. Grantaire rests his free hand on Enjolras’ hip to anchor him.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Relax,” he whispers and slips a finger inside to the first knuckle. “Jesus, you’re tight,” he says, wondering how he’s going to fit himself inside Enjolras without hurting him.

“It’s been awhile,” Enjolras says, voice clipped. “I’m okay, though. Keep going.” Grantaire does as instructed, working his finger in and out, going for more lube when he starts to feel resistance.

It takes a little while, but by the time he’s worked two fingers all the way in, Enjolras is panting and moaning brokenly. Grantaire strokes across that little bundle of nerves over and over as he thrusts his fingers in and out, thoroughly enjoying all the noises he can wring out of him.

“Fuck, Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts, “I’m ready, c’mon, oh fuck—“ he trails off as Grantaire slides a third finger in without warning.

“You’re not ready yet. Trust me.” Grantaire keeps sliding his fingers in and out, spreading them apart as much as he can without truly hurting Enjolras, but he does want his cock to be inside all that tight heat at some point tonight.

“You can’t, _oh, god_ , be big enough to, _fuck_ , hurt me now, Grantaire,” Enjolras manages to say between gasps and moans.

“How would you know? You haven’t even gotten my pants off yet,” Grantaire teases. Enjolras sits up and turns, Grantaire’s fingers slipping out as he moves, and with a grace that doesn’t match how he was coming apart on Grantaire’s fingers seconds ago, he unfastens Grantaire’s jeans, and slides them and his boxers down together as far as he can with Grantaire still kneeling. Enjolras takes a moment to look at Grantaire’s cock, hard enough to cut diamonds and leaking slightly, and nods, turning back around and going back down onto all fours.

“I’m ready,” he repeats.

“Enjolras…” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“I like it to hurt a little,” he says, voice going soft. “You won’t hurt me, not seriously, but I like the burn of it at the beginning.” Well, Grantaire can’t argue with what the man underneath him wants.

“Okay, fine,” he says, stepping off the bed to pull his pants all the way off and finally removing the sock from his left foot. He slides the condom on and lubes himself before kneeling back on the bed and lining himself up. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, fuck, Grantaire. Now,” Enjolras insists, wiggling his ass and trying to push back against Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire has to laugh, wondering how he got so lucky tonight. He shakes his head and presses forward, one hand on Enjolras’ hip and the other guiding himself inside.

“Fucking hell, Enjolras,” he rasps out. Enjolras is so tight and hot around him that it punches the air from his chest.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Enjolras is chanting. Grantaire can feel him trying to relax around him, muscles loosening and contracting as he gets used to the intrusion. Once he’s completely inside Enjolras, he waits, putting his other hand around Enjolras’ hip and squeezing.

“You okay?” he asks, showing an enormous amount of restraint by not moving, because _holy fuck_ , he has never wanted to fuck someone as badly as he wants to fuck Enjolras right this second.

“Fuck, yes. Move, please,” Enjolras says, arching his back and pressing backward, and the sight is enough to undo all of Grantaire’s careful control. He pulls back, feeling his head brush against Enjolras’ prostate, and slams back in, his thighs flush with Enjolras’. Enjolras cries out, dropping his head so that his back is one long, sloping line downward.

Grantaire keeps up his pace, headboard knocking against the wall with every thrust, Enjolras moaning and gasping unintelligible words under him. His hands slip up from Enjolras’ hips, and Grantaire grasps his side with one hand and presses the other against his back between his shoulder blades, keeping him against the mattress as he fucks into him.

“Oh, jesus, you’re tight, fuck! You look so good like this,” Grantaire babbles as he feels his orgasm tightening low in his belly. He slips a hand under Enjolras and strokes him in time with his thrusts, keeping his other hand planted firmly on Enjolras’ back.

“Oh my god, Grantaire, yes, fuck, just like that, ohh fuck _me_ ,” Enjolras answers Grantaire’s babbling with his own. Grantaire slams his hips forward over and over, unable to stop the filth from falling out of it.

“God, you look amazing under me, taking my cock like you were made for it. Jesus, I bet you could come from just me fucking you.” Even as he says it, he speeds his hand up, twisting his grip at the head.

“God, Grantaire, don’t stop. Fuck! I’m so close.” Grantaire tightens his grip, and seconds later, Enjolras is coming over his hand. He shouts and spasms around Grantaire, clenching tighter than Grantaire thought was possible, and Grantaire follows him over the edge. He keeps thrusting, chasing his own orgasm to the very end as Enjolras’ muscles continue to spasm from aftershocks, milking every bit of come out of Grantaire.

When the overstimulation becomes too much, Grantaire pulls out of Enjolras, allowing the blonde man to collapse on his stomach, too spent to even care about lying in his own wet spot. Grantaire gives himself time to catch his breath, and leans over the side of the bed to snatch up a t-shirt from the floor to wipe the lube and come off himself and Enjolras.

With the quick clean up job done and the condom tied off and sent in the direction of the trash can, he rests beside Enjolras on his back, wondering if he can arrange a friends with benefits situation with this man.

Grantaire’s not sure he’s ever had sex that spectacular before.

“Wow,” Enjolras says, muffled by the bedspread in which his face is buried.

“Seconded.” Grantaire closes his eyes and listens to Enjolras’ breathing slow as he comes down from his orgasm.

“Can I stay the night?” Enjolras asks, turning to face him.

“You can live here forever as long as we can have sex like that every night. Jesus christ,” Grantaire says without thinking. Enjolras laughs quietly.

“I think I might need to know you for more than a few hours before I move in, but I’d be amenable to seeing you again.” Grantaire leans over and kisses him, pulling him in until Enjolras is halfway lying on Grantaire. Neither of them seem to care about the cooling sweat or the drying come sticking them together. When they break apart, Enjolras sighs happily, humming a bit as he does so.

“I haven’t felt this relaxed in months. Ambien can’t compete with being thoroughly fucked.”

“I’m glad I could help, Apollo.” Grantaire thinks for a moment about how quickly Enjolras had zeroed in on him, how urgently he’d shoved Grantaire against the wall of the bar and shoved his tongue down his throat. “Hey, Enjolras,” he says quietly, unable to keep his paranoia at bay.

“Yeah?”

“You said it’s been awhile since you’ve done this, but you practically tried to fuck me in the parking lot. Why me?”

“I’m…kind of particular.”

“Particular how?” Grantaire’s still suspicious, but he’s also intrigued. 

“I like mouthy types. _Intelligent_ mouthy types.” Grantaire chuckles at the slight tinge of embarrassment in his voice.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Apollo. Are we a tough bunch to find?” Enjolras rolls onto his back but keeps his face turned toward Grantaire, a tiny grin on playing on his lips.

“Sometimes. I usually just let Courfeyrac go to town on me, but he and Combeferre finally started dating recently after literal years of dancing around each other, so he’s off the table now.”

“I see. They the two you were with tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ve known Combeferre since kindergarten, and Courfeyrac came along in middle school. We all went to college and then law school together.” Enjolras smiles wistfully to himself. Grantaire’s level of suspicion drops sharply. “I’m not sure I could even make it without them now. Combeferre’s like my brother.”

“And Courfeyrac?” Grantaire prompts.

“I hesitate to use the same simile since I’ve fucked him, but we’re just as close, platonically speaking, as Combeferre and me.”

“You get verbose after an orgasm.” Enjolras laughs and rolls away, turning on his side and facing the bedroom door. The allure of slumber pulls at Grantaire after the adrenaline of his hit and the mind-blowing sex. He yawns and pulls the quilt up over them both.

“And now I’m going to sleep. Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras.” Grantaire keeps himself awake until Enjolras’ breathing has slowed and deepened into a steady pattern, following him into a dreamless sleep moments later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com) if you enjoyed it! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, so you’re one of those people who can’t accept a compliment.”
> 
> “No, I’m just picky about the compliments I accept. _‘Wow, Grantaire, what a magical dick you have!’_ or _‘You sure are great at throwing knives!’_ are examples of compliments I both accept and encourage.” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut! More characters! Enjoy!

Grantaire wakes all at once to noises in the bathroom. His hand is halfway to the knife stashed between the mattress and bedframe when he remembers bringing Enjolras home with him. He’s hard, but apparently Enjolras isn’t in the mood for any ‘good morning’ sex.

He puts on some sweats and heads to the kitchen for coffee. Their clothing isn’t on the hallway floor, so he figures Enjolras must have picked it up before going for a shower. _Thoughtful,_ he thinks.

Halfway through his first cup of coffee, Enjolras appears in his clothes from the night before, damp-haired and looking only slightly rumpled. He smiles easily and grabs another mug, handing it off to Enjolras without a word. Enjolras leans in and kisses him soundly on the lips as he takes it in one hand, the other moving up to rest against his jaw. He tastes like Grantaire’s toothpaste, smells like his body wash and shampoo.

“Good morning to you too,” Grantaire murmurs when he pulls away to pour himself some coffee from the pot. Usually, there’s a degree of awkwardness the next morning, something about sharing such intimacy with someone who is practically a stranger. There’s none of that with Enjolras, though. It seems easy and relaxed.

Perhaps it’s last night’s promise of more that puts them at ease.

“I really do hate to leave so early, but I’ve got to meet with a client this morning, and I don’t want to do it dressed in yesterday’s clothes.” Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee, black, just like Grantaire prefers, and sighs happily.

“It’s Sunday, Enjolras. What kind of clients do you have to meet with on a Sunday?”

“I work in legal aid, and it’s my client’s only day off,” he says, leaning back against the counter and raking his eyes down Grantaire’s bare chest and smirking at his poorly hidden morningwood. “Not that I wouldn’t love to take care of _that_ for you,” he adds, nodding at Grantaire’s crotch. Grantaire huffs out a laugh.

“It’s okay, Apollo. I can manage.” Enjolras pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it, tapping the screen a few times before offering it to Grantaire.

“Put your number in, and I’ll call you,” he says, smiling when Grantaire takes it. “I figured you’d want to exchange numbers since you invited me to live with you last night.” Grantaire types in his info and hands it back.

“You’re not wrong. It’s a standing offer.” Enjolras drops his phone back in his pocket and turns to pour himself more coffee.

“Good to know I’ll always have work as your live-in fuckbuddy if this whole lawyer thing doesn’t pan out.” Enjolras looks down at the mail laying on the counter, reaches under it and grabs one of Grantaire’s new throwing knives. He looks it over and raises an eyebrow at Grantaire.

“Everyone needs hobbies, Enjolras,” Grantaire says offhandedly, smiling faintly. He had been testing them out at his armory yesterday and stopped at his post office box on the way home. Opening letters with one had seemed appropriate at the time.

Enjolras tilts his head thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything beyond a soft ‘hmm’. It figures that this perfect specimen seemingly tailored to fit Grantaire’s hottest wet dreams would be irritatingly observant. Enjolras takes one more sip of coffee and pours the rest out in the sink.

“I have to go if I’m going to make it across town to change before my meeting, but I’ll text you later, if that’s okay.” Grantaire sits his mug down as well and follows him to the door where he receives another searing kiss that does absolutely nothing to make his erection go away.

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath, Apollo.” Enjolras shakes his head, amused.

“Goodbye, Grantaire.”

Grantaire takes a long shower, relishing the sting of the hot water on his aches and bruises, both from Enjolras and his mark’s well-trained guards. He almost never feels guilt after a kill anymore, and if he cared more it might worry him that he’s bothered so little by snuffing out someone’s life. Usually, his assassination jobs are for scum of the earth types, though, so maybe it doesn’t matter at all.

He’s aware of the fucked-up nature of his moral compass and the confusing tangle of his mind, but those are things he’s pushed so far out of his consciousness that he only thinks of the _whys_ in fleeting moments.

It probably has something to do with his lack of belief in gods or governments or humanity or really anything at all. The only time his morality tries to make itself known is when his subconscious attacks him with nightmares, so repressing things always seems like a better option than suddenly having a crisis of conscience. Spiritually speaking, if he believed in some sort of afterlife, he’s well aware of the kind of place people like him would go, so perhaps it’s better that he doesn’t believe at all.

He dresses quickly and stows his bag of bloodied clothes in his bike’s saddlebag. The morning air wakes him up more than the coffee did as he heads into the arts district, about fifteen miles from his house. Feuilly runs a gallery out of an old warehouse there, complete with a basement-level work space for him to sculpt and three fireplaces still in working order.

He parks behind the building and strolls up the steps to the loading dock with his clothing bag in one hand and a paper sack of pastries in the other, pressing the buzzer with his elbow for an obnoxiously long time. Footsteps grow louder from behind the door in sync with the angry Spanish cursing.

“Pinche estúpido, son las ocho de la mañana en domingo, que chingados.” Grantaire grins. Feuilly is one of his favorite people, right up there with Cosette. The gray metal door is wrenched open and Feuilly stands on the other side, bleary-eyed and scowling.

“Good morning, Feuilly,” he says, holding up the paper bag. “I brought you apple fritters.” Feuilly eyes him for a long few seconds before snatching the bag and turning away, leaving the door open behind him. Grantaire follows him inside and down the long hallway to his office. “You know, if you didn’t work so late and sleep here, I wouldn’t be able to wake you up at _eight o’clock on a Sunday morning_.”

“Que te jodan,” Feuilly responds tiredly and without any heat.

“Love you too, brother,” Grantaire smiles, sinking into an old plush armchair facing Feuilly’s desk. Feuilly flops back down on the couch in the back corner where he was clearly sleeping before Grantaire woke him. The large office is filled with mismatched but comfortable furniture and a random but nicely chosen collection of paintings and small sculptures, giving it a homey and relaxed feel.

Eyes closed and the bag of fritters resting on his stomach, Feuilly asks, “Should I even ask you what’s in the bag?”

“Apple fritters. I told you that already.” 

“Whatever man. You know the way to the basement.” Grantaire gets up and heads toward the stairs at the end of the hallway. Feuilly was one of the first people he met after leaving the SEALs and moving to the city. He wandered into the Corinth one evening and struck up easy conversation with the bartender on duty, Feuilly. They kept in touch and built a friendship based on alcohol, art, and not talking much about their pasts.

These days, Feuilly runs the gallery as the owner and CEO, teaches youth art classes, raises funding for art education in the city, and still manages to turn out stunning sculptures of his own. Actual sculptures, not the masses of metal Grantaire produces. It’s really no surprise that he’s constantly exhausted.

He also allows Grantaire to burn things in his fireplaces and doesn’t ask questions. If he has any suspicions about the kinds of things Grantaire does for a living, and Grantaire is sure he does, he doesn’t voice them.

Grantaire slips down the stairs quietly, making almost no noise purely from habit. There aren’t any fires burning currently, so he lights one, making quick work of it and letting it build for a while. Stoking the flames idly with a metal rod, he sits in front of the hearth and watches the flames lick at the logs, wrapping upward around them as if a lover’s caress. Phantom touches flit across his skin, and he remembers the way Enjolras had come apart in his mouth and on his cock. A smile crawls across his face as he places his bloody clothing in the now-roaring fire.

He stays until the clothing is long gone and the logs are mostly ash, head resting on his jacket as he lies on the uneven stone floor. When he returns to the office, Feuilly is still on the couch, curled on his side and snoring slightly as he sleeps. The bag of fritters has been emptied and tossed into the trash.

As quietly as possible, Grantaire leaves. He has one more stop to make this morning.

Grantaire parks behind a flower shop and unlocks the back door. A tall, willowy figure looks up from behind a table covered in all manner of different flowers and smiles widely when they see Grantaire's face. 

"R! It's been ages! Come in, come in. Want some coffee?" they ask, waving him over as he locks the door behind him.

"It's been a week, Jehan. Not that long. And yes, coffee would be amazing." Jehan goes to a little table in the corner laden with a coffee maker and a few mugs. 

"It feels like longer, darling." They pour the coffee into a pink mug painted with exotic flowers and hand it off to Grantaire with a wink. "Been off causing chaos, have you?" they ask vaguely, both of them knowing exactly when Jehan means. They move to one of the tables in the middle of the room and begin arranging some irises in the back of a large terracotta pot. Their overalls are dusted here and there with pollen and spotted with water. Buckets of different flowers and plants fill the room, pots and baskets are stacked in every corner, and gardening and positional equipment is littered across the various tables. It's very cluttered, things mismatched and seemingly random, but the artist in Grantaire recognizes that Jehan has some sort of order in use here, even if he's unable to actually pinpoint it. 

"Just a bit. Meeting new people. Making my mark." He sips his coffee slowly, eyes tracking Jehan’s movements as they arrange more flowers and foliage into something like art. 

"I see," they reply off-handedly, their focus already back on task. "You're very good at meeting people."

"The best." Jehan snorts, eyes flicking up to Grantaire's briefly. 

"I'd argue in favor of Eponine on that one, but _one_ of the best, definitely."

"I'm wounded, Jehan. Truly."

"Well, the truth can certainly cut deeply sometimes." The two share a smile before Jehan turns back to their work. Grantaire spends a few minutes leaning against the sink, just watching and sipping his coffee, enjoying the relaxing atmosphere in silence. When Jehan steps back and wipes their hands on the rag thrown over their shoulder, Grantaire rinses his empty mug in the sink and goes around the table to stand beside Jehan. The arrangement looks like an explosion of color, lush and vibrant, every bloom and leaf in perfect position. 

"It's beautiful, Jehan. You're a master of the floral arts." Jehan laughs lightly, patting Grantaire on the back and going to the sink to wash up. 

"Flatterer." Drying their hands on the same rag covered in dirt and multicolored smears, Jehan goes to pour their own cup of coffee. "Eponine's upstairs already. I heard her moving around up there earlier. I'm not kicking you out, but I have to open the shop." Jehan grins at him and waves a hand in the direction of the stairs. "So get out." Grantaire raises his hands in front of him, acquiescing with a slight bow of his head. 

"Okay, okay. Thanks for the coffee, my lovely Jehan."

"See you, R," they call over their shoulder as they disappear through the curtain and into the store proper. 

Grantaire moves to the door at the back of the room and inputs his code on the number pad attached to the handle. It chirps, LED lights flashing green, and he moves through it, climbing the stairs quickly and opening the door to the left at the landing.

Eponine sits in the corner to his right behind a large curved desk covered in computers and paperwork. A cigarette hangs from her perfectly lined red lips as she types. Grantaire flops himself across the old loveseat against the wall by the desk and waits for her to acknowledge him. He knows better than to bother her when she’s working so intently.

Minutes pass, only punctuated by the clacking of keys and soft inhale-exhales of smoke passing between her lips and back out of her lungs. It’s relaxing and calm in a way it rarely is when the day truly begins at their little base of operations. The quiet goes on long enough that when Eponine speaks, it startles Grantaire a bit, though not enough for him to show it, of course.

“Your photo came through fine last night. The money should be in your account by now.” Grantaire’s not even sure Eponine has glanced at him since he came through the door. Her efficiency can be jarring sometimes.

“D’you think you’ll ever get tired of receiving photos of dead bodies, Ep?” he asks, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“As long as it means we’re getting paid and no one died who wasn’t supposed to, no.” She hits a final keystroke and stops typing, leaning back in her high-backed computer chair to stretch, and finally looks his way. Grantaire slits his eyes open and grins at her.

“No issues, did a quick in-dispatch-out-firework job and threw some blame back toward his employers. Little to no chance of any blowback.” It’s hard for him to give a report that doesn’t sound like a debrief, his military training taking over without any conscious effort.

“I’m sure you did your little ‘story time’ bit. Was he satisfyingly terrified by your dramatics?” Eponine knows Grantaire nearly as well as she knows herself. Back when he first started working with her, before their ‘agency’ became the sprawling monster it is now, they typically ran jobs together. He knows how deeply her bloodlust runs, tempered beneath carefully held control and subterfuge. She knows how he still thinks he should worry about how little regard he has for taking the lives of his marks.

She also knows how much he enjoys killing assholes like Walt Keyser and that he loses no sleep over it whatsoever.

“Yes and yes. I think if I’d waited another minute, he might have pissed himself.”

“Pity you didn’t, then.” She lights another cigarette, the first stubbed out in an ashtray beside her keyboard whilst still typing. “I got another job for you if you want it. Might take a few weeks to complete with the legwork and research you’ll need to do.” Grantaire entertains turning it down, taking some time for himself, but ultimately knows that when he’s ready to do the job in a few weeks’ time, he’ll be thankful for it. Sitting idle doesn’t work for him for very long.

“What kind of job is it?”

“Info acquisition and dispatch. Drug cartel from upstate had a member go rogue and they need to know why. Apparently, he was pretty high-ranking. He hired protection and went to ground last week.”

“Why don’t they go after him themselves?”

“It’s not common knowledge yet, and they don’t want it getting out. They’ve been prepping a big deal and don’t want his disappearance to spook anyone and fuck it up. They also want to know if he’s planned any sabotage against them.” Grantaire hums softly, thinking it over. Info retrieval isn’t the type of job he usually takes. They have others who usually volunteer. Others who enjoy the _retrieving_ part. Grantaire knows how to torture people, isn’t too shabby at it, but he prefers not to.

However, if Eponine is offering it to him, it’s because she either thinks he’d be well-suited for the job or doesn’t trust anyone else with it. It’s common knowledge that while she doesn’t take many jobs herself anymore—enough mercs in their network and jobs rolling in for her to do much more than manage the chaos and keep things running smoothly—she’s still clearly at the top of the food chain with Grantaire a close second.

“Fine. Send me the details. What’s the time frame?” She stubs out her second smoke and fixes him with a look.

“You sure?” She knows how he feels about these kinds of jobs, but this is the only out he’ll get. Once he’s accepted the job, it’s his to finish until he’s either successful or dead. No one backs out of a job they’ve taken. Eponine prides herself on the reputation of her business, and if someone fucks it up, she takes care of it personally. Grantaire has yet to meet someone who isn’t at least a little afraid of her.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” She smiles victoriously at him then, and Grantaire knows she offered him this job because she doesn’t trust anyone else with it. Even her reassuring smiles are slightly shark-like.

“Good. Their deal won’t be finalized for a month, on the fifteenth, so you’ll need to do it and get the info back to them by the thirteenth at the latest. It’s not a rush job, but it’s got a definite deadline.” Her eyes light up then, and she smirks at him. “Wanna know the payout?”

“Obviously, Ep. I don’t torture and kill for free,” Grantaire shoots back wryly, rolling his eyes.

“One mil.” Grantaire whistles through his teeth. He’s not hurting for money, never will be, and if he planned on having children, their grandchildren would still have money left, but…one million is a _lot_ of money. His payout after Eponine takes her cut for the agency will still be over 750k.

“Jesus fucking christ, Ep. You should’ve led with that.” She shrugs.

“Maybe I was feeling the dramatics today too. I don’t fucking tell stories, but I do enjoy the occasional exciting reveal.” Grantaire huffs out a short laugh, nodding.

“I’ll get started on it later today. Have your people call my people.” He stands and rolls his shoulders, trying to relax the stiffness out of them.

“Na, take the day, rest up, do some art or get laid or something if you haven’t already. Don’t burn yourself out, R.” Grantaire smiles fondly at her and steps forward to lean over the desk and kiss the top of her head. It’s a testament to their history that she allows him to do so.

“Will do, boss. I’ll keep you updated. Tell Gav I said hello.”

“He’ll probably pop in to see you soon. He’s trying to get me to let him join up. I’ve been a terrible sister and refusing.” Grantaire sighs but smiles in spite of himself.

“Take care, Ep. Talk soon.” He hears her start typing again before the door even closes behind him.

He’s in his garage that evening when Enjolras returns, the gleaming red Prius once again making his Crown Vic look sad in comparison. Enjolras had texted him during his lunch at the Cafe Musain, where he tried and failed to convince Gavroche that entering into the merc business shouldn’t be his first, second, or third choice for a career, especially at the tender age of eighteen. Gav had only been slightly distracted by Grantaire receiving a request for booty in the middle of the afternoon, which meant that the kid was serious and would probably end up following his sister into the business, with or without anyone’s blessing. Upon informing Eponine of his failed attempt in dissuasion, she replied with only a string of frowning emojis. He sent back a few shrugging ones before telling Enjolras that six o’clock would be fine and that he could whip them up some dinner.

“Apollo, lovely to see you again,” Grantaire greets Enjolras, shedding his heavy welding gear and placing it on one of his work tables. He uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and grins when he catches Enjolras staring at the bare skin of his abdomen.

“Uh, you too, yeah,” he replies, distracted before visibly shaking his head a bit and meeting Grantaire’s eyes. He doesn’t blush, but he does look slightly embarrassed. Grantaire only smirks, not giving him any outs and wondering how this lawyer he’s managed to snare will respond. Enjolras clears his throat and steps over to the sculpture. _Obfuscation, then,_ Grantaire thinks.

“So, you’ve started on the legs and base then?” he says, leaning over a little to look closer at the rods Grantaire was working on placing when he arrived.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be slow work though. I want to weave them around each other to make the muscle shapes, and that’ll take time to do right.”

“I can tell it will be stunning. You’re very talented.” Enjolras finally turns to look at Grantaire again.

“That’s bold of you to say before seeing anything I’ve finished, dear Enjolras.” He holds Enjolras’ gaze for a few seconds before turning to put his welding gear back on the hooks where they’re stored.

“Ah, so you’re one of those people who can’t accept a compliment.”

“No, I’m just picky about the compliments I accept. _‘Wow, Grantaire, what a magical dick you have!’_ or _‘You sure are great at throwing knives!’_ are examples of compliments I both accept and encourage.” Enjolras rolls his eyes, but smiles all the same.

“Did you say you make food? Because I’m starving.” Grantaire nods and leads the way into the house.

“Sure thing, Apollo. I don’t want you to be low on energy later. I have plans.”

The chicken and rice in the oven still had about 10 minutes left, so Grantaire left Enjolras to his own devices long enough to take a quick shower to wash off the sweat and welding grime. He’d done a thorough check of his house earlier in the afternoon to make sure nothing would raise suspicion about his occupation if Enjolras got nosy. Since the knife-throwing was now something Grantaire had copped to, he left his new set of knives on the counter where Enjolras had seen them that morning and his favorites on his dresser in the bedroom where they usually stayed. His collection of burner phones was relocated to the safe in his closet, where they honestly should have already been. All of his special armor and gear were stashed in the locked cabinet in his garage. If Enjolras ended up picking his cabinet locks, he would need to rethink his lack of suspicion and change his plans for the night.

After his shower, Enjolras and he spent a good couple of hours eating and then talking about their lives. Enjolras told him about growing up in an affluent family but being unable to see the suffering of those less fortunate without doing whatever he could to help. About opening up a legal aid center in the city with his two best friends and colleagues instead of joining any of the prestigious firms that offered him jobs upon graduation. Grantaire told Enjolras about his family and how he became a SEAL just to spite them. He explained giving eight years of his life up in “service” to his country before becoming disillusioned enough to not re-enlist. He also briefly mentioned his enrollment and prompt exit from art school.

They also talked about things they preferred in the bedroom. What things were off the table. What was very much on the table.

“You like restraints, huh?” Grantaire murmurs, wondering if night two was too early to try tying Enjolras up. 

“Yeah, you?” Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Grantaire.

“On other people, fuck yeah. On me? No. I don’t freak out or anything, but it does put me out of the mood.”

“What if someone wanted to pin you down and fuck you? Without physical restraints, of course.” Hmm. Well. If the sudden tightness in his pants is anything to go by, Grantaire is fine with that.

“That’s a yes, Apollo. If you would like, we can rearrange my plans for some of yours.”

“No, I want to see your plans. I think we’ll have a chance to explore mine another time.”

Grantaire let his urges dictate his actions, and suddenly, he’s kissing Enjolras deeply, his hands roaming freely, finding every spot that makes Enjolras’ breath hitch.

By the time they reach the bedroom, Grantaire’s pants have moved from uncomfortably snug to unbearably tight. Enjolras drops to his knees and sets to work on his button and zipper, wasting no time at all in swallowing Grantaire down once his cock springs free. The relieved sigh he was in the middle of turns into a surprised, strangled moan as he feels the head of his dick hit the back of Enjolras’ throat. 

“Jesus fucking christ, Enjolras,” he grits out, hands immediately twisting in soft, blonde curls. “This will be over very quickly if you keep this up.” Enjolras only flicks his eyes up to meet Grantaire’s gaze before continuing his work enthusiastically.

Grantaire has been to a lot of beautiful places. He’s seen the most beautiful landscapes in Patagonia, stood with his feet in the clearest water and the whitest sand in the Philippines, and nearly wept at the beauty of St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, but he suddenly cannot remember what any of those look like. All he can see is Enjolras on his knees in front of him, blonde hair askew and eyes shining at him in the darkness of the room as he tries his very best to end the night before even making it to the bed.

As much as it pains him to do so, Grantaire gently presses Enjolras’ head back until his cock slips free from those perfect goddamn lips. Both of them are panting in the darkness as Grantaire pulls him to his feet and kisses him so deeply that he gets lost in sensation--the feeling of Enjolras’ tongue pressing into his mouth, his soft and swollen lips working feverishly against Grantaire’s own, the soft breaths and quiet moans as their hands roam and explore. It’s intoxicating and exciting in a way that Grantaire hasn’t felt in a long time. When they finally part, they both take time to just breathe, forehead to forehead. Grantaire chuckles, unable to believe that he’s acting in this way, feeling these feelings for someone who does not and will never actually know him. Someone so gorgeous he nicknamed the man Apollo when he picked him up in a bar one night ago and who is now back for round two for some unknown goddamn reason. It’s ridiculous, and so Grantaire laughs.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks, a strange little smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“It’s just that I’ve never felt like this with someone I picked up in a bar,” he answers truthfully.

“How do you feel?” Enjolras runs his hands through Grantaire’s hair, his fingernails scraping lightly as he goes. 

“Like the world could be burning down outside, and I wouldn’t even care.” Enjolras huffs out a laugh himself.

“I think that’s your default. The fact that I wouldn’t care, that says much more.” Grantaire steps back to pull his shirt over his head and kick off his jeans and underwear.

“I don’t believe for a second that you wouldn’t care, but you’re right. It does say much more.” Enjolras mirrors Grantaire's movements and strips himself, laying down on the bed as Grantaire rifles around in his bedside drawer for condoms and lube. 

"So, what were your plans for the night, Grantaire?" Enjolras is laid out on the bed like an effigy of ancient desire--one arm up over his head, fingertips brushing his hair, his left leg bent slightly, not hiding, but enticing. Grantaire honestly does not understand how this is happening to him. 

"I thought maybe I could work you open really slowly with my tongue, and then you could ride me into the mattress." Grantaire smirks at Enjolras, and if Enjolras is put off by his scar, he hides it well behind darkening eyes. "If you're amenable, of course."

"Well, how can I turn down an offer like that?" Grantaire grins and climbs onto the bed between Enjolras' legs, sliding them apart as he moves. Remembering the reaction he received the night before, he takes time out to press his mouth to the crease of Enjolras' right hip, sliding his tongue lightly against the skin there and following it up with his teeth. Enjolras sucks in a lungful of air and suddenly, there are hands in Grantaire’s hair, not pulling, but simply holding on. Goosebumps spread across Enjolras’ thighs and ribs as he bucks his hips for more friction, but Grantaire just grins against his skin and follows the same procedure on the other side, finally finding himself rewarded with a good tug on his hair.

“Jesus Christ, Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes out, voice low and already raspy. Grantaire looks up at him as he finishes sucking a mark into the sensitive skin of Enjolras’ left hip and is instantly rock hard. Enjolras is flushed from chest to hairline, his panting breaths drumming out staccato beats as his cock jumps in time to his pulse. A few seconds pass with Grantaire soaking in the image that will likely haunt his wet dreams for decades to come, and Enjolras collects himself enough to look up and quirk an eyebrow. “Are you okay?” Grantaire brings his brain back online and smiles.

“Perfectly so, Apollo,” Grantaire informs, winking at him in the dim light of the bedroom. He receives a quiet scoff and an eyeroll, but that doesn’t put him off in the least. He bends Enjolras’ legs back so that he’s spread open for him, and without any ceremony, he licks a firm stripe across his hole from bottom to top. Enjolras spasms and cries out, but Grantaire doesn’t give him any time to gather himself before leaning back in and swirling his tongue around his rim.

Grantaire takes his time with short kitten licks and then bold firm strokes that leave Enjolras breathless. He babbles the whole time, sometimes with choked-off words and other times with unintelligible noises as Grantaire continues to lick him into a desperate frenzy. By the time Grantaire is sliding one lubed-up finger into Enjolras, he thinks, perhaps, Enjolras might come from this alone. He’s been steadily dripping pre-cum onto his belly for the last few moments, and once Grantaire presses two fingers into him and grazes his fingertips across Enjolras’ prostate, he _wails_.

“Fuck, Grantaire, please I’m ready, I can’t take much more,” he breathes out, voice wrecked.

“You can, I think, but I’ll be nice this time.” Grantaire lets him rest his legs back down on the bed and slides on a condom and lubes it up. Enjolras is watching him through heavily-lidded eyes, lightly stroking himself as Grantaire settles next to him on the bed and slides a hand down his cheek. “Come on, Enjolras. Use me however you need.” Enjolras is on him in a split second, straddling and sinking down onto him in one smooth motion. Grantaire, who was not expecting things to go this quickly, promptly rolls his eyes back into his head and valiantly resists the urge to thrust upward wildly until he comes.

“Goddamnit, Apollo,” Grantaire grits out, squeezing Enjolras’ hips in his hands as he struggles to keep this from ending prematurely. Enjolras is fluttering around him as he adjusts to Grantaire’s size, sending sparks up Grantaire’s spine with each movement.

After what feels like an eternity, Enjolras begins to move in small grinding motions as he tests out angles. It all feels like heaven to Grantaire, but he understands the need to hit the _right_ spot. Enjolras leans back slightly and moans, long and loud as he lifts up and lets himself fall back down, tightening deliciously as he goes. 

Grantaire’s learning that Enjolras goes after what he wants with unashamed abandon, and riding Grantaire into the mattress is no exception. Enjolras places his hands on Grantaire’s thighs for balance as he moves, head thrown back and making little noises with each downslide. Grantaire’s fingers press into the spots on Enjolras’ hips that drive him wild as he helps guide him up and down, enjoying the way Enjolras squeezes him that much tighter as he does. 

“Enjolras, you’re fucking gorgeous, holy shit,” Grantaire can’t stop the words from pouring out. If he’s got one thing going for him, it’s his mouth. “Fucking ride me, just like that. Use me, baby.” The words slip out easily, his mind unable to focus on what he’s saying in lieu of literally everything else happening at this point in time.

“Touch me, please, Grantaire, god, you feel so good.” Enjolras babbles back, peppering his sentences with expletives whenever Grantaire’s cock drags against his prostate. Grantaire brings a hand up and strokes Enjolras firmly from root to tip, swiping his thumb across the slit on the upstroke. “Ah, god, fuck, please.” Enjolras’ hips stutter and then speed up as he chases his orgasm, his fingertips digging into Grantaire’s thighs until he’s sure he’ll have bruises in the morning.

“That’s it, Apollo, fuck me good. Give it to me,” Grantaire growls as his hand speeds up on Enjolras’ dick, feeling him tighten up, and not even realizing until this moment that it was possible for Enjolras to get tighter around him.

“I’m there, I’m there, Grantaire, fuck, FUCK!” Enjolras cries out and throws his head back, shooting across Grantaire’s stomach and chest as he works him through it. Grantaire uses his other hand to hold Enjolras’ hip as he slams upward, once, twice, three times before coming so hard he thinks he sees stars behind his eyes.

Enjolras leans forward and the new angle sends little jolts from Grantaire’s overstimulated cock and up into his belly. He groans and slides his free hand through Enjolras’ locks, mouthing against his jawline as they both just breathe.

A few moments later, once they’ve cleaned up as much as they’re going to, Grantaire is wrapped around Enjolras, back to chest. They are both still awake, but Grantaire can feel the heaviness of sleep settling over him, and Enjolras’ breathing has evened out into a slow rhythm.

“Seriously, though, Apollo. Feel free to stay forever,” Grantaire mumbles. He feels Enjolras huff out a laugh and settle into the pillows.

“We’ll see, Grantaire. Go to sleep.” Grantaire does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave me a comment or visit my tumblr [here](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com) if you enjoyed. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire wake up together, and then Grantaire plays detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as you might notice, I changed the title. "Carry It With You' is the title I slapped on this years ago, but it just didn't seem to fit anymore, and then I was listening to FOB's Infinity on High...so here we are. I think it fits much better. Please enjoy!

Early the next morning, Grantaire wakes unsettled from a dream he can't quite grasp. Images shuffle through his brain, and he has to take a few deep breaths to acclimate. Enjolras has shifted in the night and is resting with his head pillowed on Grantaire's chest, which rises with each breath. One of Grantaire's arms is curled around Enjolras' shoulders, and so he uses his free hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, trying to banish the few flashes of memory that had made it through the haze of sleep and into his awakened brain.

After a bit, Enjolras stirs and chuffs gently in his sleep, waking slowly. Grantaire focuses on him, the way he stretches his legs and the arm that isn't tucked into Grantaire's side. He's all lean lines and pale skin, and Grantaire relaxes as he makes notes of how Enjolras looks at this new angle. Finally, Enjolras looks up and smiles sleepily, sliding a hand down Grantaire's chest and coming to rest just below his sternum.

"Good morning, Grantaire," Enjolras sighs, briefly resting his head back down and leaning into Grantaire's hand as he tangles his fingers into soft, slightly frizzled locks. 

"Mornin’, Apollo," Grantaire replies, his voice rough and still sleep-hewn. He yawns so wide his jaw pops, and the bedroom slides into sharp relief once more, the hazy terror of his dreams slowly retreating back into the box where they typically reside.

“Do you have to rush off this morning too?” Enjolras smiles against his skin and shakes his head.

“Not _as_ early. I brought clothes with me this time so I don’t have to go home before going in to work.”

“Then we should shower together.” Grantaire presses a quick kiss into the soft hair on top of his head and makes his way to the ensuite bathroom. He still feels the dream dirt and grit stuck to his skin, and even if he can’t physically feel it, his brain is insistent upon it existing. 

So, a shower, and hopefully Enjolras’ calculating eyes won’t notice the phantoms in his.

This house has always been blessed with perfect water pressure, so he lets the water heat up and shivers in pleasure as he steps in and lets it pound the imagined grime down the drain. Grantaire stands with his head under the spray for a few moments before Enjolras slides the curtain back and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Get in here, Enjolras. Where have you been?”

“I started the coffee maker so it'd be ready when we are.” Huh.

“Huh. Well aren’t you a useful little boy scout.” Enjolras steps in, and Grantaire moves back to let him stand under the spray. “I was hoping this partnership would work out this way. I give you mind-blowing sex, and you return the favor in coffee and sculpture compliments.” Enjolras turns to look at him, water running in rivulets down his front, cock still half-hard from sleep.

“Do you ever shut up, Grantaire?” Enjorlas asks with a quirk to his lips, half fond and half exasperated.

“Only if I’m made to?” he replies, his cadence taking an upturn at the end to make a question.

“With pleasure.” Enjolras’ voice is pitched just a bit lower, huskier, as he puts his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and waits for Grantaire to lower himself to his knees. “Is this a preferable way to shut you up?”

“One of them, yes.” Grantaire slides Enjolras into his mouth and presses in as far as he can without choking. He still isn’t as great at blowjobs as he is at other things, but right now, Enjolras hardening further and sitting heavy on his tongue forces him to focus on the here and now more so than the ghosts at his back.

 _‘Not to mention the view’_ he thinks as he slides his gaze up to meet Enjolras’. Fingers tangle themselves in his hair and he keeps looking at Enjolras, letting his presence fill him up. He drinks in every gasp, every sigh and shudder as he lets Enjolras set the pace he needs. The sounds he makes in his throat are obscene, and Enjolras’ bright eyes seem to darken as he moves Grantaire faster and deeper until finally, he has to close his eyes. He zeroes in on the feeling of Enjolras’ hands guiding him, the pressure as he nearly slides into his throat at every thrust.

Sure, Grantaire likes being in charge of things, but this is pretty good too.

“I’m about to come, Grantaire. Where?” Enjolras grounds out, stuttering in his movements. Grantaire doesn’t think about it. He just pulls off of Enjolras and looks up at him, mouth open and waiting.

“Goddamnit, Grantaire,” Enjolras huffs and then he’s coming, one hand smacking against the wall for balance as he wrings himself out with the other. Enjolras just breathes for a few moments, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s as Grantaire just sits and waits, stray drops of water from Enjolras’ hair falling on his face and mixing with the come there.

After a few seconds, Enjolras pulls Grantaire to his feet and puts his hands on Grantaire’s cheeks, and then they’re kissing like nothing else in the world matters. Like last night. There’s come and water everywhere, and it should be less than pleasant, but it doesn’t stop Grantaire from wrapping his arms around Enjolras and squeezing until they break apart for air.

It’s clearly ridiculous how enamored he is with Enjolras, and even more astounding is how Enjolras seems to be feeling the same back at him.

But as he does with most of his feelings, he doesn’t question it.

Eventually, once the water is cooling and they’re both clean, they have to leave the safety of the shower and venture back out into the rest of the house. They both dress quickly, Enjolras in the bedroom and Grantaire in the closet where he can slip on his knife holsters without prying eyes in preparation for the day.

They share a cup of coffee again, standing in the kitchen this time with less conversation. Grantaire’s head is once again on straight, but for once, he doesn’t feel the need to fill the space between them with words. Enjolras kisses him again before he slips out the door, promising to text him later. Grantaire lets himself smile for a few seconds at that before shaking himself out of it and heading to his office.

This rogue mafioso isn’t going to find and interrogate himself.

Grantaire spends the next few days researching his target, reaching out to contacts, and gathering intel on where exactly he could have gone to ground. He intersperses conversations in other languages and various tones with texting Enjolras and smiling stupidly at his phone. 

The cartel that hired them, the Molotov Brotherhood, had given them a limited amount of information, which isn’t uncommon, but it _is_ making it difficult to locate their rogue brother. Being stingy with information is what you do when you don’t want your independent contractors knowing too much about your organization, and hey, Grantaire understands that. But, goddamn.

As an independent contractor (who receives most of his jobs from a third party agency, but _semantics_ , right?), Grantaire wouldn’t give out any of this privileged information (probably) and would love to know more about the man known as ‘Brother Rhys’.

He doesn’t find anything on his target, but he _does_ find out some other interesting tidbits that he might be able to use to his advantage.

Grantaire rides out to the far east end of the city, into the area controlled by the Bonifacio family. He’s, well, _friendly_ isn’t really the term he’d use, but they have a mutual tolerance for each other, and as far as he’s concerned, do what you want as long as it doesn’t include selling humans. The Bonifacios mainly run in the cocaine and party drug scene, but they also trade in information, and they've proven to be very useful for Grantaire in the past.

As long as Grantaire also brings something useful to the table. He hopes his information is good enough.

He rides up to the black gate in front of the main house and takes off his helmet to stare into the camera. He waves and smiles at the lens and is met with the creak of the automatic gate as it slides back and grants him entrance. He leaves his bike parked out front and strolls up to the guards at the front door.

“Arms out, please,” one of them orders politely. It’s not a request, but Grantaire appreciates the ‘please.’ He complies and winks at the other guard as his six knives, two guns, and extra magazines are removed from his person and placed into a box by the door.

“What do you want, Grantaire?” the guard asks. Grantaire thinks his name is Brandon, but doesn’t want to offend him if he’s wrong. He’s probably wrong.

“I have some information to trade with V. Is she in?”

“The boss is in, but she’s busy right now.”

“What if I know something about the Amascas trying to move in on your territory?”

“She’s still busy. Feel free to wait out here, though.” That’s not the answer Grantaire would prefer, but short of killing Possibly Brandon and his friend and making some powerful enemies, he doesn’t have many choices.

“Great. Thank you, B.”

“It’s Brent, thanks,” Brent says. Right. Brent.

“Thank you, Brent.” Grantaire sits down on the steps with his back to the railing on the right and pulls his beanie down over his eyes as if he means to take a nap. He can still see through the fabric, but if he’s unconcerned, the guards will be too.

“My pleasure, Grantaire,” Brent deadpans.

An indiscriminate amount of time later, wherein Grantaire might have actually fallen asleep for a few minutes, a rock smacks Grantaire in the shoulder, waking him, but not startling him. Well, not too badly. He pulls his hat back up onto his forehead and squints at Brent.

“The boss can see you now.” Brent seems a bit happier after getting to throw a rock at Grantaire, so he considers it his good deed for the day.

Other than blowing Enjolras in the shower, of course.

“Thank you very much for the hospitality Brent and Brent’s friend,” Grantaire says as he opens the door and saunters in. Brent’s friend only grunts, so he doesn’t expect to be as close to him as he is with Brent.

The foyer is what one might expect in the house of an accomplished drug lord, but there are personal touches here and here. A collage of family photos is hung over the spiral staircase. There is a hanging shelf with plants dangling by the window, their green, leafy tendrils reaching toward the sunlight streaming through the immaculately cleaned glass.

Of course, there are also marble floors and what looks to be a Rodin on a stone pedestal by the entrance to the sitting room.

Grantaire makes his way up the stairs to the second floor where he encounters four more guards who get personal with all of his parts, both private and not, before ushering him through large, white double doors. V’s office is beautiful. With the windows lining the upper half of the room and gleaming against gorgeous hardwood floors and the ornately carved bookshelves, everything is lit brilliantly. The artist in Grantaire loves this room and would spend all of his time in here if it was his.

But, it’s not, and the woman it _does_ belong to is sitting in a high-backed chair reminiscent of ol’ Walt’s, and fixing him with a cool stare, one eyebrow artfully raised.

“This is the second time this week I’ve seen a chair like that. Must be comfy.” Grantaire flops down and relaxes back into one of the most comfortable chairs his ass has had the privilege to grace. “Oh my god, V, you bought new chairs since I was here last. This is lovely.”

“Grantaire, I have a business to run. If you would like to converse about the quality of my chairs we will have to reconvene at a later date.”

“Is that something you will actually do? Pencil me in for a chair conversation?” Grantaire grins at her, but she does not grin back.

“No. I was merely being professional. What do you want?”

“Well, I have new information about some of your neighbors to the north, and thought it prudent to share. Sharing is caring, after all.”

“And do you care about me, Grantaire?”

“Without question, V. Who else would fix me with such withering glances whenever I visit them?” That earns him an eye roll and possibly a smaller smile than even Eponine is capable of.

“So, what do you know about our Northern foes?”

“Well, I know they’re planning on moving on your territory soon,” Grantaire leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

“That’s old news, Grantaire. You said you had _new_ news.”

“And I do, but I do require a bit of payment for that.”

“Is this a trade of information about the Molotov boys’ lost sheep?” Grantaire congratulates himself on a trip well made.

“It is.” She clasps her hands together and leans her forearms on her desk.

“Then I have bad news for you. I don’t know where he is.” Well. Shit. Grantaire straightens and sighs.

“That is bad news indeed, V.”

“However, if you can give me something useful about the Amascas, then I will aid you in your search.” Grantaire narrows his eyes while still holding her gaze as he mulls it over. She is absolutely the apex predator in the room, and Grantaire knows it. If he doesn’t give her the info, he won’t be leaving with all of his parts attached. If he leaves at all.

Information for information it is.

“Deal.” She smiles, shark-like, and holds her hands out in front of her, palms up. _Go on, then_ , she doesn’t say.

“They’ve managed to get a mole into your Riverside warehouse team. They’re planning on sabotaging the next shipment there and then moving into your northeastern territory with the stolen goods. They made a deal with your suppliers for that route, and they put out feelers into that area to see who might turn to them for business.” Grantaire can see the careful calculations behind her eyes as she takes in what he’s said.

“Do you know who the mole is?”

“I don’t, but I do know that the talks with your supplier began about two months ago. Hire dates should help you suss it out.” A few long moments of silence pass as she taps a perfectly manicured nail against her chin and fixes her thousand-yard stare on the wall behind his head.

“Okay, then. I’ll put my own feelers out, and if this is true, I’ll do a little digging for you.” Sensing that the conversation is over, Grantaire stands and bows, giving a little flourish with his right hand as he goes.

“You think you’re much funnier than you are, Grantaire,” she informs him, phone already out and held to her ear.

“It’s been a pleasure, Ms. V. Until next time.” He lets himself out and collects his weapons at the door. Much to the chagrin of Brent, he stands right next to him and straps each one back on his person, with precision and probably too many theatrics.

“Farewell, dear Brent and Brent’s friend. It was truly an honor to be watched by you while I slept.”

“Fuck off, Grantaire” Brent says with a smile.

“Okay, but only because you were so polite,” Grantaire calls back, firing up his bike and speeding back down the driveway.

Grantaire goes back to his house and continues working, looking through financials, finding shell companies and off-shore accounts. He calls Montparnasse, an old associate of Ep’s who went truly freelance once she took over for her father, and offers a future favor for useful information. He’s going to owe so many favors after this. Not everyone wants to trade information for information like V.

Grantaire is swiftly becoming anti-Brother Rhys, and once he finds him, and he _will_ , this rigamarole might make it easier for Grantaire to persuade him into spilling his secrets. What comes after finding his mark has been in the back of his mind from the beginning, as it always is when it’s information acquisition of this sort. Most of the time he turns these jobs down because they make the nightmares worse, but the money is too good to ignore.

 _And_ Eponine offered it to him for a reason. He’s not worried about his already sullied soul. He knows what kind of person he is. His profession might often require him to lie to others, but he tries not to lie to himself. When the repression stops working, he will face whatever comes his way.

He gets a message from V with a link to an info packet. After a few check-ups on the info, he starts to pack, sending a message to Montparnasse to disregard his request. All he gets are a few frowny faces in return.

He lets Ep know that he’s got the intel he needs and is heading out. She sends him back a quick ‘good luck’ with a few kissy faces. It’s amazing that Montparnasse and Eponine ever managed to have a falling out.

He messages Jehan to ask them to keep an eye on his place and to water his plants. He somehow always ends up with perkier plants after a prolonged excursion. Jehan is truly a master of flora persuasion.

The last thing he does before heading toward the coast is call Enjolras.

“Hey, Grantaire, what’s up? It’s early,” Enjolras answers, his voice husky from sleep. Grantaire checks his watch, and it is indeed just before six in the morning.

“Sorry to call so early. I had a consulting gig that just opened up out of state, so I’ll be gone for a little while. A couple weeks at most.”

“Oh, well. That ruins my weekend plans for you,” Enjolras says, yawning.

“I’m sure they were going to be spectacular, Apollo. Rain check?”

“Of course. And I would say mind-blowing, even.” Grantaire grins in spite of himself as he tucks his supplies into the false bottom of his trunk. He closes it carefully and sets his duffle on top.

“Well, I will be looking even more forward to our next meeting then. Have a good day, Enjolras. Think of me often.” Enjolras chuckles and sighs.

“That’s the plan. See you soon.”

Grantaire hangs up and closes the trunk. He tries very hard to wipe Enjolras from his mind but doesn’t succeed as fully as he’d like. He tries again and after a few deep breaths, he slips into his work mindframe. The one with no distractions that keeps him alive.

He pulls out of his garage and onto the road, windows down to breathe in the crisp, morning air.

Time to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the next chapter will be more action and less sex, but ya know. Grantaire is a merc, so it was bound to happen. Here's to hoping I can keep this going in a timely fashion. Feel free to leave a comment or come talk to me on tumblr [here](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, I made a post with a few face canons for this fic on my tumblr as well. Find it [here](https://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com/post/628083199299436544/for-my-newly-titled-bulletproof-loneliness#notes). <3<3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, patient folx. This chapter has no smut, but it's got action. It's another little peek inside Grantaire's job. Check the updated tags. In this chapter, be aware of murder and general assassin-type violence and mentions of torture. If that's not your bag, check the notes at the end. <3

About five hours after his arrival, Grantaire decides he’s completely _over_ this quaint, little town. Not only is the weather oppressively humid, but with the tiny population size, it's nearly impossible to move around unnoticed.

On the plus side, however, he found one of Brother Andrew Rhys Bowen Jr.’s associates at the Stop ‘n Save. (Yes, V even got his last name. Grantaire finds her competence more attractive than her office.)

Grantaire tails the goon back to their safehouse and then spends a few days surveilling the place. It’s a large cabin set back in the woods, about a mile off the main road. Only one service road runs near it, and the path that leads to the house, hidden behind a copse of trees, is covered by foliage. Grantaire had ditched his car as soon as he saw the guard turn off the main road and tracked him to where the vehicles were parked. He did spend a good few minutes wandering around before the guards’ voices drew him in the right direction. They check the perimeters three times a day, early, around six, then at noon, and again at nine. One guard is posted at the back door and two are posted in the front. He’s seen at least six different guards.

Brother Rhys still hasn’t shown his face, but the guards have to be, well, _guarding_ something.

From the research he’s done on the guards, they’re just regular hired muscle. It’s regrettable to have to put people down who are just doing their jobs, but Grantaire has a job too. Sometimes it sucks. Brother Rhys hasn’t hired his guard for their upstanding morals, and Grantaire is mostly fine with what he has to do. Mostly.

His phone buzzes from the drawer he threw it in at the tiny motel outside of town. Enjolras had started texting him before he even made his first pit stop and hasn’t stopped since. The phone must have a superhuman battery installed to still be merrily buzzing away with every message.

Listen, Grantaire doesn’t know why he hasn’t put it on silent or turned it off. He just. Hasn’t done it. He also hasn’t checked it either, though. The vibrations are one thing, but if he reads and responds, he will get distracted and likely killed.

He can’t fuck Enjolras again if he’s dead.

So, he’ll leave it in the drawer to remind him that he has something to go home to, and then read all the texts after he gets back home. So, he’s lying to himself, whatever. He does know why he keeps it on vibrate.

Three days later finds Grantaire posted up in a tree near the perimeter of the house at four fucking o’clock in the morning. He’s been there since about three, scouting the house for movement and for any signs that the routines might have changed.

It has all been utterly predictable, and Grantaire is hopelessly bored. There’s a reason he was never destined for sniper school. He can be still when he needs to, but he hates it desperately. The waiting was never for him. The guard posted at the back door is falling asleep, chin dipping onto his chest every few seconds, and really, Grantaire can relate.

At precisely 0430 hours, Grantaire silently drops from the tree and approaches the house. The guards who run perimeter checks wake around 0530 to get ready and rouse the outside guards from their sleepy stupors. There are eight guards in all, with at least two inside the house at all times, usually four or five unless they’re doing their checks outside. He’s hoping to have all the guards down and Brother Rhys secured before anyone should be awake.

By the time the guard outside the back door is fully aware of Grantaire’s presence, he’s unconscious. Grantaire drags him to the treeline and drops him in a bush, and with a quick slash of his MK3 knife, the man is bleeding out onto the ground, unable to convince his severed vocal cords make his last words known.

Grantaire takes the radio and keys from the guard and slowly stalks back to the house. He slots the radio onto his belt and tries one of the keys in the lock. After a few tries, he gets the right one and hopes that no one is in the kitchen for an early morning snack. The door creaks a little as it swings open, but his footfalls are silent as he closes the door and stays low. Moving across the room toward the hallway, he opens the first door, finding a man still asleep and rolled away from him, facing the window covered by heavy blackout drapes.

This man goes the same way as the first, unable to even lay his eyes on Grantaire’s face before he’s gone. Grantaire moves through two more rooms this way, silently offing the guards in their beds. The fourth room, however, has bunks, with both beds occupied. He was hoping to take out all the guards inside before alerting the ones at the front door. Ideally, he would take out the two posted at the front door silently also and be able to take Brother Rhys by surprise.

Fucking bunk beds.

As quietly as possible, Grantaire pulls his machete from his back, glad to see that the top bunk is simply metal slats holding a thin mattress. In one motion, Grantaire strikes the man in the bottom bunk with his MK 3 while running his other blade through one of the slats and into the man on the top bunk. The guy on the bottom has the courtesy to die quietly.

The man in the top bunk groans and inhales, surely meaning to shout about the giant blade protruding from his gut. In a second, Grantaire removes the machete and flips himself up into the bed, muffling the man’s shouts with a pillow as he drives the smaller MK 3 between his ribs and into his heart.

The bed creaks a little, but as he climbs down, all seems quiet again.

The cleanup on this place is going to be such a bitch. It’s in the middle of the forest, so if it burns, it will start a forest fire, and then there will be an investigation, which would be at the very least annoying, and at the most, a death sentence from Eponine.

Grantaire cleans his blades on the quilt of the top bunk and starts his silent move back toward the front of the house, intending to take out the two guards at the front door.

One of which who has just stepped inside and is just as surprised to see Grantaire as Grantaire is to see him.

Grantaire’s faster, though. He pulls his suppressed P226 from his holster and has put him down in less than a second. The grunt and thud brings the last guard through the door (instead of taking cover, stupid), and Grantaire lays him out as well, a splatter of blood and brain tissue spraying the heavy wooden door.

A prickle on the back of Grantaire’s neck has him ducking and moving to the side as Brother Rhys himself swings a woodcutting axe in an arc attempting to cleave his head from his shoulders. Grantaire uses the momentum of the movement to roll further away and gets back to his feet in time to duck another swing and move behind the counter. Brother Rhys follows him quickly, spry for a man nearing sixty, yelling from the exertion of swinging a heavy axe over and over and ruining the kitchen as he goes.

Grantaire weighs his options as he moves. He can’t kill him before he gets any information out of him, and a strategic injury is too dangerous to try while he’s still moving and swinging wildly. He raises his gun and fires to the side of Brother Rhys’ head, forcing him to duck mid-swing. Grantaire takes his moment to grab the handle of the axe and twists it from his grip, tossing it over his shoulder and into the corner of the living room.

Brother Rhys gets right back up in his space, smashing his fist into Grantaire’s eye and splitting his eyebrow with the heavy ring he’s sporting. Pain blossoms in his side as he takes a knee to his ribs, but Grantaire moves through the motion and throws Brother Rhys off balance. Grantaire growls through the pain and takes the opening presented to him before Brother Rhys can reset. A right cross to the ear disorients him, and he bends over, allowing Grantaire to finish him with a knee to the face.

Looking around at the carnage in the room and knowing the messes in each of the bedrooms, Grantaire decides to call a cleaning service when he’s finished here. With this payout, it wouldn’t even put a dent in his wallet, and like hell is he cleaning all of this shit up.

He huffs and pulls a syringe from his vest, uncaps it, and slides the needle into the big vein on the side of his mark’s neck. Grantaire needs him to stay unconscious long enough to set up for the interrogatory part of this job.

He uses his shirt to wipe the blood off of his face, and curses at the red splotches on his left side. He’s had worse, much worse in fact, but bruised ribs are a painful and slow-healing injury, and his eye is already swelling, and all of this will be difficult to explain to his...repeat booty call.

Friend with benefits? Sex pal? Whatever.

He grabs Brother Rhys by the ankles and drags him toward the basement steps, internally satisfied as his head bounces not-too-lightly off of each step on the way down.

***

In the span of an hour, Grantaire secured his target, wrapped his ribs, cleaned and bandaged his eye, sent Eponine an update message and asked her to send out a clean up service that evening.

It’s lucky that Brother Rhys has sturdy metal chairs at his dinner table. It’s even luckier that they have arms so Grantaire can tie his wrists separately and within his view. He’s also tied his ankles to the legs of the chair and wrapped another rope around his chest to keep him from squirming too much.

Grantaire doesn’t lay his tools out, and he doesn’t typically try to do the evil intimidation thing when he has to retrieve information. He's theatrical at heart, but he’s also never been convincing at playing the villainous torturer. He’s relatively quiet, sometimes completely impassive and blank, playing it differently than most of his other jobs. If he can use words and information in place of maiming, he will.

It gets the job done for the most part, and if it doesn’t, well. He also has a nail-bat that has only ever been used on heads and knees. Knees get you to talk, heads shut you up and scare others into talking.

It’s effective and gives him nightmares for days.

Brother Rhys comes back to consciousness slowly, fingers twitching, head rolling, eyes blurry and unfocused. Grantaire just leans against the wall in front of him, arms crossed and posture relaxed. A few more moments pass before Brother Rhys completely realizes what has happened. Grantaire wonders if he should have used a smaller dose on him, but then remembers his ribs and eye and stands by his former dosing decision.

“I suppose the Brotherhood has sent you.” His voice is croaky and quiet, but he’s not hard to hear in the small basement with the dirt floor. A hint of an accent slips into his vowels, and it’s hard to determine whether he’s trying to dampen it or if it’s just faded after however many decades he’s spent in the States. He’s definitely Welsh, but Grantaire knows fuck all about what regions have what dialects.

And, he supposes, it doesn’t really matter much anyway.

“Yeah, they did,” he responds.

“And they don’t just want me dead.”

“Ultimately, they do. It doesn’t have to be painful, though. They didn’t specify.”

“I just have to spill all my secrets first, yeah?” He’s looking Grantaire in the eyes, and seems slightly angry, but mostly resigned to what’s about to happen.

“Only the ones I ask you for,” Grantaire replies. He pushes off the wall and stalks forward, leaning over to get a better look at his target. He keeps his face out of range of any headbutts, but he isn’t shy about Brother Rhys’ personal space. “You seem angry, Brother.”

“Of course I’m fucking angry. They knocked me down the ladder to appease those _diawls_ they’re dealing with, and when I gave them reasons we shouldn’t trust them, well,” he scoffs and spits. “I was told that I would fall in line or be knocked out of it.”

“So, are you going to tell me what I need to know?” Grantaire is doubtful, but hey, maybe he’s wrong.

“Fuck no. I’m not telling you shite because it’ll help them, and fuck them.”

“Okay then.” Grantaire walks back over to his bag and grabs his MK3, leaning back against the wall and toying with the blade.

“D’ya think that knife is gonna scare me?” Brother Rhys asks, a scoff in his voice. “Please. I’ve faced down countless men much worse than you. Decades full of ‘em. You won’t get a fucking word out of me.” Grantaire simply watches him as he speaks, idly toying with the knife, but mostly just calmly watching.

“What do you think you could do to me that I haven’t already lived through and survived? You’ll fuck up, and I’ll fucking gut you.” He’s leaning forward as much as he can, face red and angry, but so, so determined.

“Is that right, Brother Andrew Rhys Bowen Jr.?” Grantaire watches him try to school his face into an unaffected mask, but he is not completely successful. Grantaire smirks and pushes off the wall, still toying with the knife. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?” Grantaire asks, fully grinning at the muscle tics in Brother Rhys’ jaw.

“Doesn’t matter, doesn’t change anything,” he spits, but Grantaire holds eye contact with him, unfazed.

“Oh, I think it does. You weren’t afraid before. Pissed, sure. Resigned to the torture, yeah.” Grantaire trails the knife across Brother Rhys’ throat, and tilts his head. “The anger is still there, but now there’s fear too. And I can work with that.” Grantaire puts the knife back in its sheath on his belt, pulls his phone out, and video calls Eponine.

“I’m in place, what’s the plan?” she asks, a bandana over her face and her dark hair tucked under a blonde wig. She’s sitting under a tree at a park about thirty minutes away from their headquarters.

“Just show them to me for now.” Grantaire spins the phone around and shows the screen to Brother Rhys.

“The fuck’s this shite?” he asks, eyes roving around trying to figure out what he’s supposed to be seeing.

“There on the swings, do you see that little girl? About, oh, six years old, right? Named Tegan?” Brother Rhys’ eyes widen slightly. “Such a cutie she is. And over there on that bench, the pretty one watching her, that’s her mother, Branwen. I looked it up, her name means ‘beautiful,’ and it’s so fitting. She is absolutely gorgeous.”

“That’s not live. That’s recorded.” 

“Hey, friend, would you look down for a second?” Eponine lowers the camera view to her pistol and knife tucked inside her jacket.

“No. This isn’t real.”

“Why don’t you go over and speak with Branwen, please,” Grantaire asks, still facing the screen toward Brother Rhys as she gets closer to the bench where Branwen is seated. Eponine must be holding the phone lower as the sideways view is mostly Branwen’s mouth and neck.

“Excuse me, miss,” she says, and her voice is clear, so she must have pulled the bandana down around her neck. Branwen looks up and raises her eyebrows, smiling a bit.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Can you tell me the time? My phone died, and I’m supposed to be meeting someone here soon.”

“Oh of course, it’s, um, 9:32,” she says, looking down at her own phone.

“Thank you so much,” Eponine says, and turns. “Is that your daughter out there?”

“Oh, yes, that’s Tegan. We come to the park every Saturday morning,” she answers, and Grantaire grins as horror dawns on Brother Rhys’ face. To further rub it in, Grantaire taps the screen so the time and date shows on the screen.

“Well, she’s a cutie. Thanks again for the time. I think I got stood up for my breakfast date, but it was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Branwen nods. Eponine walks down the street and around the corner before pulling her bandana back up and looking at her phone again.

“Thanks, pal. Stay on standby, yeah?” Eponine salutes and ends the call. Grantaire slides the phone back in his pocket and turns to Brother Rhys.

“Her address is 762 Arrington Road, and she takes Tegan out for pancakes after their park trip and then heads back to the house. Every Saturday.” The digging he’d done after finding out Brother Rhys’ identity hadn’t all been just for location.

The man in question has gone pale and is staring at Grantaire with poorly-disguised horror.

“See, I have some specific questions for you, and yeah, I could break out the tools of the trade and work you over, but I’ve found that with _tough_ guys like you, it’s best to hit you in your soft spots. And your family seems so very soft, Brother.”

“Don’t you dare touch them. I’ll--” he cuts off because he is smart enough to know that he has no leverage. Grantaire would never touch them, but he is hoping he’s giving off the air that he absolutely would off them without care.

“You’ll what? Die here in this basement? Yeah, you will. You get to decide whether you get to watch them die first or not, though.” For a long moment, Brother Rhys searches Grantaire’s eyes, his face, for any sign of a bluff or soft spot. Grantaire allows him to and just stares back, unflinching and uncaring. Finally, Brother Rhys sighs and looks at the floor, shaking his head slightly.

“What do you wanna know?”

By that afternoon, Grantaire is back in his hotel room, freshly showered and packing. He handed the information off to Eponine and retrieved confirmation that the cleaners will be arriving at the cabin by dusk. He had dragged all the bodies to one of the bedrooms and pulled the curtains so any unlikely passerbys wouldn’t immediately sense anything amiss. 

He pulls his regular encrypted phone from the drawer and turns it on, letting it buzz away as it notifies him of all his missed messages. Sitting on the bed, he flips through the photos Jehan had taken of his plants and their increased perkiness. He dismisses the text from Bahorel asking him to meet up for a sparring match yesterday, and then scrolls through the texts from Enjolras.

_‘I hate rich people lawyers.’  
‘God, this meeting is the worst.’  
‘Combeferre and Courfeyrac think I’m messaging you too much for a two-night stand.’  
‘Am I messaging you, a two-night stand, too much?’  
‘Where did you get called to? Somewhere nice?’  
‘How long do you think you’ll be gone?’  
‘Not to sound needy, of course.’  
‘Are you okay? It’s been three days.’  
‘I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I was just worried.’  
‘What kind of consultant are you anyway?’  
‘I’m not going to message you again until you get back to me, but I hope you’re okay.’_

Grantaire swears and rubs his eyes. A nap would be nice, but he would rather make it home in time to sleep in his own bed. He taps out a text to Enjolras. Might as well start explaining his injuries away now.

_‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. Job went a little sideways. I’m a security consultant btw. The higher profile clients sometimes don’t want us to have our personal phones on the job, and then shit happened. Sorry again, I should have explained, but I was in a hurry when I left. I’ll get in late tonight, but hopefully we can meet up tomorrow?’_

Grantaire is halfway home when he gets a reply.

_‘Can’t wait.’_ He grins and focuses back on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Grantaire takes out his mark's guards and convinces him to talk by having Eponine make contact with his daughter and granddaughter and threatening their safety (unbeknownst to them, and also Grantaire would never harm a child). He tells Enjolras via text that he is a security consultant and had a job go sideways but is coming home and makes plans for them to meet the next day.]
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies. As always, I love comments here and asks over on [Tumblr](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com)


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